


Five Times the Big Game Hunters Were Gay

by zulu



Category: Boa vs. Python
Genre: 06-10, M/M, Mpreg, for:daemonluna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-24
Updated: 2006-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve doesn't understand it. She doesn't understand it at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times the Big Game Hunters Were Gay

_one_

There was a two-hundred-foot long python on the loose. Littlefield and Foley had both joined the hunt to make the finest kill of their careers. Neither of them would give an inch. Foley would rather die a slow and torturous death than show himself to be less than perfect. Littlefield would rather burn in hell for a dozen eternities than see his rival triumph. Foley had only a single bullet, and Littlefield had nothing but a crossbow and a handful of quarrels. It was impossible to say whose pants were tighter, or whose abs were more chiseled and washboard-like. Foley's sunglasses did nothing to mute his titanium glare. Littlefield's face could have been carved from diamond. They didn't laugh in the face of fear, because that was giving fear too much credit. They stared down their noses at fear and sneered contemptuously at it, as if it was the germ on the mold on the mucous on the slug on the dirt under their boots.

During the flight on Broddick's plane, they'd gazed at each other impassively, as still as death and stone. They circled each other. Not warily, because they didn't know the meaning of the word. If Foley's nostrils had flared, no one without a ruler that measured picometers would have been able to tell. If Littlefield's pupils had dilated, no light meter except the sensitive rods of his own retina would know it.

When the plane landed, they were the last ones to disembark. "After you," Foley said in a husky, dangerous voice. Littlefield just grunted and inclined his head towards the hatch. The tension in the air was thicker than the honey you'd smear all over someone before licking them clean. Then, like a thick steel cable snapping under eighteen hundred pounds per square inch of pressure, Foley and Littlefield slammed into each other, tearing open each other's scanty clothing to reveal the broad expanses of tanned muscle beneath. They growled like Siberian tigers and fought as savagely as Kodiak bears. Foley demanded that Littlefield let him suck his dick. Littlefield commanded Foley to fuck him hard. And after that, things got _messy_.

By the time they joined the others, they were bathed in the sweat and musk of manly men at their absolute manliest. Testosterone was their favourite perfume and virility stuck to them like maple syrup. They ignored each other completely as each tended to his own weapon. And if anyone at all found out about the phone numbers they'd exchanged and tucked securely into the front of their pants, then Littlefield and Foley were prepared to kill that person without hesitation or remorse.

_two_

"I got rich in oil," Tex drawled. Tex always drawled. Anyone writing a story about Tex would never in all of tarnation use "said" when they were describing how he talked. They might go so far as to switch it up to "whooped" or "yee-hahed", but if you could trust one thing about Tex, it was that he had an accent so thick it could serve as the grease at twenty of Lubbock's finest naked-wrassling strip bars for a month and still not be worn thin. And, as it happened, the fact that Tex drawled was the _only_ thing you could trust about him. Now, he wasn't fibbing when he said he'd gotten rich in oil. He was just letting everybody and their bloodhound believe he meant the kind of oil that spurted in hot waves from tall, rigid oil derricks everywhere in the Lone Star State. And that just wasn't so.

Tex had gotten rich making, testing, and goddamn well _using_ the finest lubricants that the state of Texas had been known to swipe across its collective cock before rutting the girliest twink that ever pouted through a darkened limo window on Lubbock's upmarket stroll.

_three_

Jimmy Danner went down on his knees to clean his rifle. Broddick paused in strapping his first cartridge belt over his shoulder to watch. The kid had a look of fierce concentration on his face as he got out his supplies and started rubbing polish into the rifle's barrel, his hands moving so fast they almost blurred against the gun's length, from the wooden stock right to the tip. When the barrel was gleaming silver-gray, Jimmy got out his bore brush and wadding, and started thrusting it down into the shaft of the rifle. He pushed it in and out, over and over. Broddick could hear his harsh breathing as he really got his back into it, his whole body moving with every driving plunge of the bore snake into the long gun. Fuck, the kid had learned at least one thing about hunting. Nothing made for better accuracy than a well-cleaned rifle. Broddick wished Jimmy would show half as much common sense once they were on the trail of the fucking python.

His wish wasn't granted. Jimmy loaded his rifle, sliding a cartridge into the breach, and then lifted it to his cheek and tried a shot. The rifle jammed. Jimmy immediately tried turning it until he was staring down its muzzle. He held the gun with one hand, while the other cupped the trigger guard. Broddick dropped his second cartridge belt in the middle of loading it and didn't even notice. Jimmy's lips went slack and a look of confusion, almost fear, came into his eyes. He leaned closer, his lips close enough to the dark opening that it looked like some parody of suicide. Closer, and his cheek almost brushed the hard metal cylinder. Fuck. Broddick gave up pretending to be doing anything and pressed his palm to the front of his tight--and getting tighter--leather pants. Both of Jimmy's hands were gripping the barrel, now, and he was peering down inside. His tongue came out and flicked across his lips and he looked like he'd never seen anything so terrifying or so beautiful in his life. Broddick was going to tell him to aim the fucking gun anywhere else, just as soon as he saw whether Jimmy was about to decide that sucking the goddamn bullet out would fix the problem. Just one more second.

"He's going to shoot his fucking eye out," Eve said, sliding her arms around Broddick from behind and sticking her tongue in his ear.

"Yeah," Broddick said, his heart pounding. He spun around, faster than Eve could react, and boosted her up. He pulled her against him and squeezed her ass roughly enough to leave fingerprints even through the leather. He was so hard it hurt. Eve purred appreciatively and wrapped her legs around his waist, thrusting against him. "Forget him, baby," he said. "You've got a real man."

_four_

Mr. Danner whapped the backside of Jimmy's head and gestured with his gun for the boy to get out of the goddamn truck. That boy was a menace and no mistake. Any other kid Mr. Danner might've had would never be such a big disappointment to his old man. Any other kid would've taken up hunting like he was born to it, instead of tripping and stumbling like a sailor trying to find his way out of a whore's flophouse after a six-day shore leave bender. But that was exactly the problem--the way Jimmy was born.

Mr. Danner had a secret, one that he'd never told anybody, one that--if it got known--well, killing hisself would be only the first step in escaping the humiliation. There was a time, before God had come down all personal-like to give him a stern talking to, that Mr. Danner wasn't the fine upstanding citizen that could bag a grizzly every fall and put meat on his family's table. Was a time when it wasn't God laying down the law, but any muscle-bound Adonis that Mr. Danner could pay to do the job.

Maybe it was something to do with his father, Mr. Danner Senior, and maybe not. But once Mr. Danner left home he got to missing the sweet harsh sting of the belt something fierce. And since there were folk even more depraved than him ready to help him out for a few dollars here and there, well, he didn't have to miss it for long, if he was willing to pay. And he was.

But then something went wrong with the whole kit and kaboodle. Mr. Danner had paid some huge, silent gym-boy to push him down across an oak table. He was clinging to its edges by his fingernails, his legs spread as wide as they'd go and then an inch more, his back and his ass bare to God and the world. The hiss of the leather cutting through the air was getting him hotter than it had any right to. And then there was a nudge at his backside, and then the nudge grew into a vicious, burning pain that somehow was even better than the lash of the belt.

Well, Mr. Danner didn't know how these things worked, but he was pretty goddamn sure that nine months later, when he felt the mother of all shits coming on, it shouldn't have been Jimmy he got rather than a fucker of a plumbing bill. Still, he had to admit he understood.

God was sometimes fierce in his punishments, that was all. And Mr. Danner knew he wouldn't ever stray from the Lord, because getting hitched to a woman and raising Jimmy for seventeen years worked better than the belt ever had.

_five_

Eve stepped into the Philadelphia forest wearing nothing but silk drawstring pants that dipped low enough to reveal the top of her Brazilian, a tank top so sheer that her erect nipples glowed dusky through the fabric, and a come-hither look that was pure seduction. It was time for Broddick to pay for putting that anaconda in her bath. She was going to get him back in a way that would make his blood boil, his eyes pop, his brain shut down, and his pants cut off circulation to his dick.

First, she wandered innocently into the middle of the clearing Broddick had chosen as their base camp. All around her, the hunters were getting ready. Eve sneered faintly. None of them was worthy of bagging the prize that Broddick had unleashed. She, and only she, would get the kill shot, and all the glory that went with it. For now, though, they made the perfect audience. Eve dropped her hunting gear to the ground, letting it land with a hard enough thump that everyone glanced up for a moment. Smiling, she twitched her hips, letting her pants fall in a silken pool at her feet. Achingly slowly, she bent over to reach her camo pants, and eased them up over her taut, naked buttocks. Eve squirmed out of her tank top next, and held it out for a moment before letting it drop. She raised her arms and stretched, completely unmindful of her amazing breasts, pulled back and up to their best advantage. Then she zipped on her Kevlar jacket, the one she'd had personally tailored to fit every curve of her body, the one that left her smooth, flawless belly exposed, the one that seemed to offer up her breasts on a plate to anyone who might care for a taste. After that it was time to apply her sunscreen. They might be wandering through the forest for hours, and it wouldn't do to let anything, especially natural sunlight, interfere with her perfect bronze tan. She rubbed the oil into her skin, letting her face show the pleasure of each warm touch, moaning slightly as she massaged her toned muscles. When every inch of her exposed skin was glistening, Eve tossed back her head to make her hair fall just so, and glanced around the clearing from underneath her half-closed eyelids to take in the effect of her actions. By now, every one of these goddamn hunters should be falling over himself to watch her, drooling and panting and probably ready to duck out of the clearing for a quick wank. She'd have every eye in the place glued to her amazing body. That'd show Broddick to toy with her, the bastard. He didn't deserve to assume she was his.

But when she glanced up, no one was watching. They were all cleaning their guns, and not one of them looked as if they'd seen even a second of her performance.

Eve didn't understand it. She didn't understand it at all.


End file.
